


eden's exile

by unhappyrefrain



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: (gordon ramsay voice) IT'S FUCKING RAW, (or the beginnings of it), Character Development, Character Study, Heavy Angst, Imprisonment, M/M, Medical Torture, Missing Scenes, Recovered Memories, Recovery, Redemption, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 00:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14344437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappyrefrain/pseuds/unhappyrefrain
Summary: For however steeped in darkness Sandalphon claims to be, his life has always been defined by light, told in memories of light.(update: changed the title)





	eden's exile

**Author's Note:**

> why do i always end up inspired and upset at 6am during finals season. why am i even publishing this? this is way too much for me to even read over again. oh my god. oh my god.
> 
> it's just raw. that's all i can think of. it's the guts of feelings. ugly and bloody-- and essential. with sandalphon the word "survivor" comes to mind. he and i both.
> 
> hm. anyway. apologies in advance.
> 
> EDIT: lucio came home and i think it was bc he read this fic and wanted to hug sandalphon or something. thank you

Your first memory. Fully formed, fully grown, naked and trembling, on the weak legs of a newborn deer, wet with the effort of being _created._ You collapse, useless limbs in a pile beneath you, barely able to hold yourself up. Someone turns around, sees you there, shaking on the marble floors. Then there is light, and you’re being held in strong, warm arms, and six wings enfold you, blinding white. Feathers drift down onto your bangs. A hand strokes your hair back, clears them from your face. You sneeze as one brushes over your nose. His face is hard to look at, with all the light, but you notice he’s smiling.

“You are perfect,” says the voice. “Sandalphon.”

 

A second memory. Light reflecting off the surface of a porcelain cup. He sits across from you, watching you expectantly. A complex, pleasant aroma rises from the steam. You raise the cup to your lips, hoping the deep-brown liquid trembling inside it tastes as good as it smells.

Unfortunately, it does not. Now, you know bitterness, the taste on your tongue, the repulsion. The impulse to spit it out. (You know only the taste, at this point; learning the emotion will come soon.) Your tongue tastes pungent, your mouth feels strangely dry. But he looks so hopeful. His eyes another memory of light. You fight the grimace threatening to twist your face with all your might, and manage to smile.

“It’s delicious,” you say. His eyes wrinkle into lovely half-moons, joy lighting up his cheeks, the most gentle and prized of smiles, all for you.

 

The third is of a moon, of the shadows it casts. Outside the lab, you press yourself against the back of a pillar and listen. Two voices, so similar in cadence; one is filled with breath and tenderness, the other is hard and sharp and cold as a blade.

“…He’s your spare in case something happens to you, and you become unable to fulfill your duties.”

“My… spare?”

_No._

“Realistically speaking, that won’t be necessary. You’ve far surpassed my wildest dreams. You exist on a higher plane. Sandalphon is useless.”

_No..._

“That scrap will be disposed of at an appropriate time…”

_This isn’t real. This isn’t real. He’s lying. I’m… I’m nothing but Lucifer’s spare?_

_No. No! How, why, what— have I been useless— this whole time? Just why am I here? Why do I exist like this? What are they going to do to me? What is Lucifer going to do to me?_

_Please don’t throw me away. Please don’t. Please don’t. I have to go I have to go_

_I have to go before you_

_before you get rid of me_

 

The fourth is bright fluorescent light above your head, buzzing in frequencies that give you migraines, then a smaller spotlight, aimed directly into your face. You close your eyes and all you see is red. You don’t move in your restraints. You hold back your tears, and attempt to leave your body. If you can be useful to him like this, just like this, then—

Someone makes an incision. You are torn open; your skin curls back from the precise wound like curled paper. No matter how many times you’ve been here, on this table, you still haven’t gotten used to this. You don’t think you ever will. You choke down a wretched sob. The pain is white-hot. Another light. _Pull everything out of me if you need to. Just let me be useful. Wreath him. Crown him with my guts, with the remains of my body. Don’t let me go to waste._

They never fully kill you.

You never become his diadem.

 

The fifth pierces through your chest. The fifth is from his hand. The fifth is his light, the light you’ve loved since the day you came to life, that you’ve never been worthy of. It embeds itself into your body. The pain is searing, beautiful. There’s finally a part of him that is yours.

You choke on your own blood.

His eyes are filled with sorrow, but they are steadfast. You double over, blood and bile falling from your lips, disappearing into the boiling nothingness below. You know this is where you are headed. You know you will not be forgiven. That you will plummet into the bottom of the sky, a horizon you will only ever see flickers of before everything ends. It is the color of your blood, of your eyes.

In your peripheral vision, you see other angels falling, stricken down with the same bolt of light that pierces your chest. Red runs from the corner of your lips. You smile. It’s warped and torn in so many ways, but it’s the least you can do— he always said he loved your smile.

And then you let yourself fall.

You close your eyes so you don’t have to expect the moment your life is snuffed out. How do archangels die? Do they die at all? Will you have to suffer any more than this? Or will every part of you blacken like it nearly did before? Will you lose yourself like that, become unrecognizable? You squeeze your eyes shut— you’re tempted to look, to watch the sky around you rush by, but it will only do you harm. You offer yourself to the horizon, a faint prayer, a paradise lost—

 

—And you land, safely, softly, curled into yourself. The sixth light is his wings through your tightly closed eyelids, like waking up to the sun in your face. Those same arms. So warm, so strong, holding you like you are still treasured, like you are still as perfect as the day you were born. You don’t look at him; you don’t let yourself look. You don’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes. He gathers you close to him, and you feel the light touch of lips onto your forehead. Unmistakable. _Lucifer,_ you breathe, but you don’t think he hears. If he does, he doesn’t respond.

_Why are you saving me? I betrayed you. I deserve to fall. Why won’t you let me die?_

You are limp in his arms. You don’t remember landing. You don’t remember anything after that.

 

The memories of light are absent, then, for 2000 years. There are places where the light cannot go. Pandemonium is one of those places. The only light you know is red and sears itself into your eyes, the light of the flames of Hell itself.

Flashes of memory— the coppery taste in your mouth. Kicked and bruised. The screams of other lesser Primals in other cells, driven to madness, driven out of themselves. They feed you only pomegranates, taunting you with a forced promise. You never sleep. You don’t know how to. There is always someone there watching you, ready to prey on your weakness, open your ribs and eat your heart. The heart you should never have been born with.

Someone is holding you by the throat against the wall of your prison cell. No— no. Don’t let them see this. Don’t let them see this.

 

Light from fire. From rage. From sheer, raw force of will. You burst out from the bottom of the sky and hurtle upwards. Why do you love him? Why do you love him? He left you there. He left you behind, he didn’t come to save you, no matter how many times you cried for him, no matter how much you begged him to help you. _Please save me. Please help me. They’re hurting me, I need you, please don’t leave me here!_ So then why? Why, still, this constricting feeling, this choking warmth, this need to be touched? Anger and frustration and passion and desperation. He won’t manifest on his own. You know how to find him. You know exactly what will make him look at you. And you don’t care if you take the whole world with you.

What does it matter? This place is worthless. This sky is worthless. Just as worthless as you.

 

You rip wings from their backs. They scream in pain, choke on their curses. _Wretch,_ they call you. _Disgusting._ You want to tell them, _I know. I know already. Shut up. I’ll take everything from you anyway._ Light pours from their wounds, the jagged gashes in their skin. With a fervor you can’t remember ever having before, you tear, you claw, you rend open flesh. Oh, they had been so prideful. They had been so pompous. Given a purpose, given meaning, given power. And now, look at them, crawling in the mud like you’d been forced to do for two millenia, spitting blood onto the dirt, beautiful perfect sculpted faces distorted in agony. Yes. Yes. This is better. This is _so_ much better. He can’t look away from you now.

You take everything you can, even things you do not need. You lose yourself to violence, to sadism, to the expressions of fear you can so easily pull from such lovely faces. You don’t want to be forgiven anymore. Your eyes are wild as you stare down at the half-ruined bodies of the other Primarchs, barely holding on to their own lives. _Do you feel this? This is what it’s like to be powerless._

Watch me as I break you. As I break everything. And then I will ascend. And I will meet him. He won’t ignore me when I bring this disgusting, tainted, cruel world to its knees. Watch me! Watch me! _Look me in the eye!_

 

(How many memories have you counted? Not enough. Never enough to explain. The depth of the hole in your chest, a broken core. Rattling with every breath.)

 

A pillar of light— this memory. It shakes the sky and rends the very air. He descends with a beating of wings, each pair rippling as he drifts down, gentle as a sunset. Again, you are blinded. Again, you shield your eyes. You are dazzled, unworthy. With his eyes on you, you shrink into the darker corners, as you always have.

Of course he looks at them first. Of course he does. The other Primarchs, healed now, looking down at your pitiful form crumpled against the dirt, at the edge of the sky. But then he says your name, and your core seizes, trembles in your throat, threatening to escape your body. His voice is just as gentle as it always was.

“Sandalphon.”

 _Lucifer,_ you think. It comes out as a whisper, so broken you wonder if he even hears it.

Why is he apologizing? Why is he blaming himself for your sins? Why, with his perfect wings, the light he has always not only exemplified but embodied, is he tainting himself with all the blood on your hands? How could he possibly look at you and see anything but the useless, broken thing you are? How is he seeing any kindness, any goodness, anything worth loving, worth _saving,_ worth _forgiving_ left in you?

Why is he crying?

Why are you crying?

He wraps you in his wings. You feel yourself dissolving into millions of little stars, the specks of light reflected from millions of tears.

 _I wanted to be loved,_ you tell him, without telling him.

His wings are just as warm as they were the day you came to be. And his touch is just as reverent, just as gentle, like you’ve only now woken up, pure and unsullied and born to be loved.

 _I know. So did I,_ he says, and you let yourself melt into him.

 

Days upon days upon days of light. So many memories of light. They blend into one long reverie, one long cloudless day, a sky under which you are alone. You care for your coffee trees. You harvest the beans, you roast them, you grind them, you make coffee from them. You don’t think about where you are, how to get out of here, what is waiting for you in whatever world remains outside. You don’t question this punishment. It’s gentle, the way he always was. If he really loved you, though, he would have killed you.

This place is too peaceful. You try to recall specific moments, just to torture yourself— the experiments in the lab, the unending nights in Pandemonium— but find that they are vague, wispy things, scattering when you wave your hand through them. He has obscured those memories with fog, a sweet and misleading barrier. But you _want_ to suffer. You want _more_ than this. If you could plunge yourself back into that place, if you could relive every night, every stifled breath, every shock of darkness through your system, every needle and bruise and scream— that, _that_ is what you deserve, all over again.

Instead, the memories you have left are all of coffee, and his smile, and a gaping void of 2000 years, and then everything you have done to close the gap in the past month. His punishment folds back onto itself. You deserve to suffer more than this, and that is your suffering. He will never give you what you want, he will never match your sin with the gravity it deserves. You are alone in this world, with only your coffee trees and your thoughts, and a day that never seems to end.

 

She manifests out of light in your beautiful little prison. The girl in blue that you snatched away, held hostage for another unnecessary pair of wings. The dragon is here too, and talkative as ever. You make them a cup of coffee, sit down calmly with them in your sanctuary.

She tells you that Lucifer may be in trouble.

Your immediate response is to doubt. _Him?_ In _trouble?_ Of all people, he is perfect. Unshakable. An immovable pillar of right and justice. No one can kill him, no one can even touch him. The Astral said so; you are useless as a spare. The realization that broke you so long ago still stands as impermeable fact. But she is insistent. She tells you you are lying. That you don’t really want to repent, if you do nothing to help him.

_How could someone like me ever understand him, much less help him? Are you trying to say I’m the only one that can save him? Do you really think him that weak, or me that important? What do you expect from me?_

The more she talks, the more it boils in you. A question rises in your throat, one you don’t want to hear the answer to. Your nerves sharpen, your core freezes. She tells you to stop putting yourself down, and you explode in a shower of fragments and fear and light, so much light, another blinding memory.

 

You wake in Canaan, in the wreckage of an old temple. There is almost no light here, not until you sense a faint glow. A small and familiar presence, that should be much more noticeable, more encompassing than this, and something lurches in your chest.

You struggle upwards, your legs shaking, unused to this physical form. So heavy, so unwieldy. Your hands grope at anything they can hold onto, anything to pull you to your feet. A ruined pillar collapses onto you, breaking under the strain of your new weight, covering you in debris and stone and choking dust. You taste plaster in your mouth. It coats your throat and your tongue until you cough yourself dry.

What a pitiful return. You expected to be woken up, one day, to his all-too-gentle gaze, reborn and reformed and loved despite all your protests to the contrary. But instead there is emptiness and ruin and the echo of every single movement, every struggle of your body to escape the rubble. And his presence, nothing more than a faint glow. Something is wrong. Something is so, so wrong.

You wonder if he’s taunting you. If this is a test. You manage to clear the rest of the plaster away, stagger out from under the rocks. Your legs are a little less unstable now, but still— strange and unfamiliar, like new appendages you haven’t yet learned to feel as parts of your body. You head towards the glow, towards the throbbing in your chest.

The closer he is, the more faint his presence becomes. Little by little, you start to doubt that this is a game. Little by little, your core fills with dread, with disbelief, with denial of something you know but don’t want to admit is real. By all knowledge, this is something that should not be.

You come to a clearing in the ruins. What looks like an altar. And there, you see—

There, you see—

 

(           )

 

You were too late.

You were too late you were too late you were too late—

If you hadn’t shut him out the moment you discovered your purpose. If you had just believed in his love. If you had just trusted yourself more. If you had just ignored your self-hate long enough to do something. If you had understood. If you had only understood.

 

He could have loved you.

His head clutched in your hands like an apple. Nothing left of him but that. Bloodless, unattached, but— there is nothing to attach to. His core is gone. He fades, and fades. He speaks to you as if you are a stranger. He does not know you are holding him, watching his light go out, dimmer by the second, weeping into his hair. _I love you. I love you. I have always loved you. How could I have done this to you? It’s my fault. It’s all my fault._

You know— you _know—_ you would have stayed in that cocoon forever. You would not have questioned it, you would not have dared to move. If the girl in blue had not shattered the illusion, you would remain there, waiting for him to unfold the wings, part the feathers to bring you back into this world. You would wait forever, for an exoneration that would never come to be. You would not witness this, would not understand. He would be alive forever in your mind, and you would wait forever for the love, the forgiveness of someone who does not exist anymore. And that is what destroys you.

He sighs. You know there is no time. His voice is wavering, growing quieter in your mind.

_What makes the sky blue?_

_You,_ you want to answer. _You colored the sky and gave it the sun. You wrapped this world in your warmth. You made it blue as far as the eye can see. You placed your hands into it like it was water, and love radiated out into this world. You made the sky blue._

_And now I have lost you. To my own bitterness, my rage and hate, my lack of self-worth. If I had only known. How much you wanted to love me. How much you always did._

You were created with a heart.

You were created with a heart.

This is why you break, in the end.

 

The last memory of light is the light he dissolves into— no. The last memory is his wings, shining from behind you, casting a long shadow before you, keeping your face in the dark. These aren’t yours. These will never be yours. They are too pure, too beautiful for your mud-smeared, sin-deep soul. But Lucifer is gone, he has entrusted you with this world, and you can’t— you can’t—

 

(— your mind stops on _can’t_. You feel the loop of thoughts threatening to engulf you, bring you to your knees, the _I can’t do anything right, I can’t go on without you, I can’t fulfill your promise or live up to your expectations, I can’t—_ and then you feel something new. A new thought. A new will, rising from within you, a light you have forgotten. The last memory—)

 

—can’t let him down.

You can’t do that to him.

This world is ugly, and cruel, and filled with despair, and it broke you over and over again and never gave you a chance to piece yourself back together. This world forced you into its dark places, only ever made you a witness to light, took and took from you and gave nothing in return. This world is so easy to hate.

But it is still his.

He is in every sunbeam, every glimpse of a shimmer against the waves, every dewdrop, every shine in the eyes before the tears come. He lingers here in ways you have never been able to imagine. He is in every memory of light you have ever had, every memory of light you will continue to make.

You face this tower of darkness in the shape of a man. You think of that darkness blotting out all that is left of him. And you refuse to let this be the end. He will be remembered in you, you will be his second coming.

You are so dirty, and war-worn, and nothing like him. Covered in blood and soil, every once-soft surface calloused, wretched and dragged through the mud, but persistent— and alive. Filthy and ragged and ruined and tarnished and twisted and imperfect in so many ways, but you rise.

Oh, they weren’t expecting this, were they? They thought they had won. They didn’t imagine that he would possibly choose a successor. That the bitter, broken traitor angel they sneered and spat upon for thousands of years would re-embody the light they tried so hard to extinguish.

You will not let them forget him. He is still here.

Each beat of your wings is another requiem. On each breath you are singing the eulogy, the hymn he hummed into your hair every time you cried and ran into his arms, the one that resonated through your body, lifted the dirt from your core, and purged the pain of the day from your nerves rubbed raw.

_Let there be light. Let there be light. Let there be light._

 

And there is light.

 


End file.
